The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XXXVI

STRONG TO ACT; ABLE TO EN­DURE

Back to Worces­ter rode the Bish­op.

Gal­lop! Gal­lop! along the grassy rides, be­side the hard high­way.

Has­ten good Shu­lamite, black and come­ly still, though flecked with foam.

Im­por­tant work lies ahead. Ev­ery mo­ment is pre­cious.

If Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress should send to the Palace, mis­chief will be done, which it will not be easy to re­pair.

If news of the flight of the Pri­oress reach­es the city of Worces­ter, a hun­dred tongues, spite­ful, ig­no­rant, cu­ri­ous, or mere­ly idle, will at once start wag­ging.

Gal­lop, gal­lop, Shu­lamite!

How im­pos­si­ble to over­take a ru­mour, if it have an hour's start of you. As well at­tempt to catch up the wa­ter which first rushed through the sluice-​gates, opened an hour be­fore you reached the dam.

How im­pos­si­ble to re­make a rep­uta­tion once bro­ken. Be­fore the price­less Vene­tian gob­let fell from the ta­ble on to the flagged floor, one hand put forth in time might have hin­dered its fall. But--fail­ing that time­ly hand--when, a sec­ond lat­er, it lies in a hun­dred pieces, the hands of the whole world are pow­er­less to make it again as it was be­fore it fell.

Faster, faster, Shu­lamite!

When the mes­sen­ger of Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress re­ports the ab­sence of the Bish­op, he will most cer­tain­ly be sent in haste to Fa­ther Bene­dict, who will ex­pe­ri­ence a sin­is­ter joy at the prospect of fol­low­ing his long nose in­to the Pri­oress's emp­ty cell, who will scent out scan­dal where there is but a fra­grance of lilies, and tear to pieces Mo­ra's rep­uta­tion, with as lit­tle com­punc­tion as a wolf tears a lamb.

Gal­lop, gal­lop, Shu­lamite! If no hand be put forth to save it, be­tween Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress and Fa­ther Bene­dict, this crys­tal bowl will be bro­ken in­to a hun­dred pieces.

At length the Bish­op drew rein, and walked his mare a mile. He had left War­wick ten miles be­hind him. He would soon be half-​way to Worces­ter.

He had left War­wick be­hind him!

It seemed to the Bish­op that, ev­er since he had first known Mo­ra de Norelle, he had al­ways been rid­ing away and leav­ing be­hind.

For her sake he rode away, leav­ing be­hind the Court, his var­ious of­fices, his grow­ing in­flu­ence and pop­ular­ity.

For her sake he left his iden­ti­ty as Fa­ther Ger­vaise at the bot­tom of the ocean, tak­ing up his life again, in Italy, un­der his oth­er name.

For her sake, when he heard that she had en­tered the Con­vent of the White Ladies, he ob­tained the ap­point­ment to the see of Worces­ter, leav­ing the sun­ny land he loved, and the prospect of far high­er prefer­ment there.

And now for her sake he rode away from War­wick as fast as steed could car­ry him, leav­ing her the bride of an­oth­er, in whose hand he had him­self placed hers, pro­nounc­ing the Church's bless­ing up­on their union.

Rid­ing away--leav­ing be­hind; leav­ing be­hind--rid­ing away. This was what his love had ev­er brought him.

Yet he felt rich to-​day, find­ing him­self in pos­ses­sion of the cer­tain knowl­edge that he had been right in judg­ing nec­es­sary, that first de­par­ture in­to ex­ile long years ago.

For had not Mo­ra told him--lit­tle dream­ing to whom she spoke--that there was a time when he had stood to her for all her heart held dear­est; yet that she had loved him, not as a girl loves a man, but rather as a nun loves her Lord.

But sure­ly a man would need to be di­vine to be so loved, and to hold such love aright. And, even then, when that oth­er man ar­rived who would fain woo her to love him as a girl loves a man, would her heart be free to re­spond to the call of na­ture? Nay. To all in­tents and pur­pos­es, her heart would be a clois­tered thing; yet would she be nei­ther bride of Christ nor bride of man. The fire in his eyes would in­deed have called her to an al­tar, and the sac­ri­fice laid there­on would be the full com­ple­tion of her wom­an­hood.

“I did well to pass in­to ex­ile,” said the Bish­op, re­view­ing the past, as he rode. Yet deep in his heart was the com­fort of those words she had said: that once he had stood to her for all her heart held dear­est. Mo­ra, the girl, had felt thus; Mo­ra, the wom­an, re­mem­bered it; and the Bish­op, as he thought of both, of­fered up a thanks­giv­ing that nei­ther he nor Fa­ther Ger­vaise had done aught which was un­wor­thy of the ide­al of her girl­hood's dream.

Gath­er­ing up the reins, he urged Shu­lamite to a rapid trot. There must be no lin­ger­ing by the way.

Has­ten, Shu­lamite! Even now the sluice-​gates may be open­ing. Even now the crys­tal bowl may be slip­ping from its pedestal, present­ly to lie in a hun­dred frag­ments on the ground.

Nay, trot­ting will scarce do. Gal­lop, gal­lop, brave black mare!

The city walls are just in sight.

Well done!

* * * * * *

Not far from the Con­vent gate, the Bish­op chanced, by great good for­tune, up­on Broth­er Philip, try­ing in the mead­ows the paces of a young horse, but late­ly pur­chased.

The Bish­op bade the lay-​broth­er ride with him to the Nun­nery and, so soon as he should have dis­mount­ed, lead Shu­lamite to the Palace sta­bles, care­ful­ly feed and tend her; then bring him out a fresh mount.

As they rode for­ward: “Hath any mes­sage ar­rived at the Palace from the Con­vent, Philip?” in­quired the Bish­op.

“None, my lord.”

“Or at the Pri­ory?”

“Nay, my lord. But I did hear, at the Pri­ory, a strange ru­mour”----

“Ru­mours are rarely worth re­gard­ing or re­peat­ing, Broth­er Philip.”

“True, my lord. Yet hav­ing so late­ly aid­ed her to ride up­on Icon”----

“'Her'? With whom then is ru­mour mak­ing free? And what saith this Pri­ory ru­mour con­cern­ing 'her'?”

“They say the old lay-​sis­ter, Mary Antony, hath fled the Con­vent.”

“Mary Antony!” ex­claimed the Bish­op, and his voice held the most ex­traor­di­nary com­bi­na­tion of amaze­ment, re­lief, and in­creduli­ty. “But, in heav­en's name, good broth­er, where­fore should the old lay-​sis­ter leave the Con­vent?”

“They say she was mak­ing her way in­to the city in search of you, my lord; but she hath not reached the Palace.”

“Any oth­er ru­mour, Philip?”

“Nay, my lord, none; save that the Pri­oress is dis­traught with anx­iety con­cern­ing the aged nun, and has com­mand­ed that the un­der­ground way to the Cathe­dral crypt be searched; though, in­deed, the porter­ess con­fess­es to hav­ing let Sis­ter Mary Antony out at the gate.”

“Ru­mour again,” said the Bish­op, “and not a word of truth in it, I war­rant. De­ny it, right and left, my good Philip; and say, on my au­thor­ity, that the Rev­erend Moth­er hath most cer­tain­ly not caused the crypt way to be searched. I would I could lay hands on the orig­ina­tor of these fool­ish tales.”

The Bish­op spoke with ap­par­ent vex­ation, but his heart had bound­ed in the up­spring of a great re­lief. Was he af­ter all in time to save with out­stretched hand that most price­less crys­tal bowl?

The Bish­op dis­mount­ed out­side the Con­vent gate. He took Shu­lamite's nose in­to his hand, and spoke gen­tly in her ear.

Then: “Lead her home, Philip,” he said, “and sur­round her with ten­der­est care. Her brave heart hath done won­ders this day. It is for us to see that her body doth not pay the penal­ty. Here! Take her rein, and go.”

Mary Mark looked out through the wick­et, in re­sponse to a knock­ing on the door. She gasped when she saw the Lord Bish­op, on foot, with­out the gate.

Quick­ly she opened, wide, and wider; hid­ing her bux­om form be­hind the door.

But the Bish­op had no thought for Mary Mark, nor in­cli­na­tion to play hide-​and-​seek with a con­science-​strick­en porter­ess.

Avoid­ing the front en­trance, he crossed the court­yard to the right, passed be­neath the rose-​arch, along the yew walk, and over the lawn, to the seat un­der the beech, where two days be­fore he had await­ed the com­ing of the Pri­oress.

Here he paused for a mo­ment, look­ing to­ward the silent clois­ters, and pic­tur­ing her tall fig­ure, her flow­ing veil and state­ly tread, ad­vanc­ing to­ward him over the sun­ny lawn.

Yet no. Even in these sur­round­ings he could not see her now as Pri­oress. Even across the Con­vent lawn there moved to meet him the love­ly wom­an with jew­elled gir­dle, white robe, and coro­net of gold­en hair--the bride of Hugh.

Per­haps this was the hard­est mo­ment to Symon of Worces­ter, in the whole of that hard day.

It was the one time when he thought of him­self.

“I have lost her!” he said. “Holy Je­su--Thou Whose heart did break af­ter three hours of dark­ness and of God-​for­sak­en lone­li­ness--have pity! The light of my life is gone from me, yet must I live.”

Over­whelmed by this sud­den re­al­isa­tion of loss, worn out in mind and ex­haust­ed in body, the Bish­op sank up­on the seat.

Mo­ra was safe with Hugh. That much had been ac­com­plished.

For the rest, things must take their own course. He could do no more--go no fur­ther.

Then he heard again her voice in the ar­bour of gold­en ros­es, say­ing, in those low sweet tones which thrilled his very soul: “He stood to me for all that was vi­tal and alive, in life and in re­li­gion; strong to act; able to en­dure.”

Dur­ing five min­utes the Bish­op sat, eyes closed, hands firm­ly clasped.

So still he sat, that the lit­tle Knight of the Bloody Vest, watch­ing, with bright eyes, from the tree over­head, al­most made up his mind to drop to the oth­er end of the seat. He was miss­ing Sis­ter Mary Antony, who had not ap­peared at all that morn­ing. This meant nei­ther crumbs nor cheese, and the “lit­tle vain man” was hun­gry.

But at the end of five min­utes the Bish­op rose, calm and pur­pose­ful; moved firm­ly up the lawn, mount­ed the steps, and passed in­to the clois­ters.